


push

by kattyshack



Series: snowflakes [14]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arguing, Dirty Talk, Drabble, F/M, Jealousy, Sexual Content, Wall Sex, drabble...ish - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 18:15:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14753840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: prompt fill (@kitten1618x; repost from tumblr): something nasty/dirty/hot, aka jealous jon + jonsa fight-and-fuck





	push

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Melissa_Alexander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melissa_Alexander/gifts).



“Alright.” Sansa drops her keys onto the counter, and turns to face him with a flourish that sends the silk skirt of her dress swinging. “You’re angry with me.”

“I’m not.” Jon loosens his tie. He’s had a hard time breathing all evening, and it’s not gotten any easier now that he’s alone with her.

Of course, the night had taken a turn for the better since they left the gallery, by virtue of their departure alone. From the outset Jon had known he wouldn’t have Sansa to himself — has no right to have her to himself. It was her art show, after all, which constituted a considerable amount of schmoozing; Jon only wishes that there had been no Masseys or Mallisters or fucking Harry Hardyng, the prick, commanding Sansa’s attention for far too long a time, in Jon’s opinion.

He would perhaps feel less anxious if he’d bothered to ask Sansa on a proper date, rather than simply serve as her escort for the evening (insisted upon by Sansa’s friend and gallery owner, Margaery Tyrell).

But he hadn’t, and now he’s a nervous wreck over the possibility that Sansa might have preferred a Massey or a Mallister or _fucking_ Harry Hardyng, and Jon would have missed his shot.

“You _are_ angry,” Sansa presses. “I’ve known you all my life, Jon, I can tell when something’s pissed you off and clearly, that something is me and I’d like to know why.”

“Well if it’s so _clear_ , then maybe you should already know why,” Jon bites back.

He doesn’t want to lose his temper with her, but he’s too wound-up to dial it back now. Sansa isn’t about to check herself, either; as she said, they’ve known each other nearly all their lives, and Jon knows her moods as well as she knows his.

And if he’s honest with himself, Jon also knows that Sansa’s temper — flushed skin, bright eyes, sharp tongue — tends to get him… hot.

Perhaps he’ll be able to do something with that tonight.

Two birds, one stone, and all that.

“You’re acting childish,” Sansa accuses next. She prods him in the chest with one manicured finger. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Jon catches her wrist before she can prod him again. “ _Don’t_ push me, Sansa, I swear to god —”

“Don’t act like I’m in the wrong when I don’t even know what I did!”

“Take a moment to think on it, would you?”

“Oh, you think it’s obvious, then?”

“Well it _is_ a bit obvious, yeah!”

This ceaseless, senseless back-and-forth continues for what Jon can only imagine is several long-suffering minutes. But he’s barely paying attention to what he’s saying, let alone the time frame in which he says it. No, his attention is focused solely on Sansa — her flushed skin, bright eyes, sharp tongue, and the insistent twitch of his cock every time she snaps at him.

She makes to jab him in the chest again, but Jon catches her wrist once more before she can make good on it, and when she demands “Honestly, Jon, what is the _matter_ with you?”, he utterly loses his mind. He must have, for it’s the only explanation as to why he does what he does.

“ _This_ is what’s the matter with me,” he all but growls, and promptly yanks her hand to the strain in his trousers. “ _Oh_ , fuck —”

He groans when she touches him, when she responds immediately and cups his hard cock, throbbing and aching for her, jumping to full attention when Sansa’s eyes widen and she (likely subconsciously) licks her lips.

“Well gods, Jon,” she says after half a heartbeat, “you could have just said something.”

“I —” Jon starts to argue without having any idea what he’s arguing, but then Sansa’s stroking him and his mind, his self-control, his _everything_ , shatters for good. “Oh, fuck this, I want you.”

By the time Sansa thinks to say “Then come and get me,” Jon’s already kissing her.

He pushes her, hard, up against the kitchen wall — the one decorated with those Dornish abstract prints she likes so much, now rattling in their frames as Jon hauls Sansa up, with his hands under her knees and hers fumbling with the snap on his trousers.

Her mouth is hot and hungry under his, glossed lips parted and peppermint-laced tongue moving with his. When her legs hitch over his hips, her ankles crossed at the small of his back, Jon exchanges his starved groan for Sansa’s sharp sigh as he grinds his erection into her warm and willing cunt.

 _“Mmph.”_ Jon tears his mouth from hers to taste her jaw, behind her ear, down her neck… “You drive me fucking mad, do you know that?”

“Back at you.” Sansa shoves his jacket from his shoulders and tears his shirt in two. Her perfectly rounded fingernails scrape down his exposed chest. She moans when he licks up her throat. “ _God_ , you’re such a prick —”

“Watch that smart mouth of yours,” Jon warns her, voice gruff. He shoves her skirt up and gives one sharp smack to her arse, then rubs his hand over the spot and squeezes. “Or you’re gonna make me come before I can fuck you.”

He’s not being facetious, either, so Jon crushes his mouth to Sansa’s before she can tease him some more.

The rest happens in a frenzied flurry of movement: Jon’s belt is whipped off, his trousers pushed down and Sansa’s skirt pushed up up _up_ , lace panties torn in two and shoved in Jon’s pocket, her mouth planting lipstick stains on his neck, his fingers making her wet, hips thrusting, and Dornish art shuddering ominously all the while.

Jon sucks his fingers into his mouth and thrusts his cock inside of her. Sansa sucks his earlobe between her teeth and rolls her hips along with the hard, frantic pace he’s set.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice rough as the stubble leaving marks on Sansa’s skin, “your cunt feels so good, so tight for me…”

He grips her more securely under her knees, keeping her steady even as he fucks her relentlessly against the wall.

“Just for me, isn’t that right, Sansa?” He tugs at the low neckline of her dress with his teeth. “You drove me mad all night, tell me you’re mine…”

“Jealous, were you?” Her hands twist in his curls, pulling them hard enough to make him growl and fuck her harder.

“Bet your sweet arse I was jealous.”

She yanks his hair and catches his panting mouth in another kiss. “ _Mmm_ , that’s so hot.”

“Yeah?” Jon grins through ragged breaths. One hand leaves her thigh to tease her clit. “You know what else would be hot, sweetheart, is if you’d come for me.”

Sansa’s back arches, breasts pressed against him, when he thumbs her clit and his cock takes deep, hard strokes inside of her. Her eyelashes flutter and her lips part, wet and swollen and faintly indented with teeth marks.

“Keep doing that and I’ll come for you as many times as you want.”

“There’s a good girl.”

Jon keeps at it — hard and fast, desperate, relentless, coaxing sighs and moans from her as she hits one peak and he encourages her into another after that, all the time whispering rough and filthy things into her ear:

_“That’s right, baby, feels so fucking good when your cunt clenches for me… Fuck, you’re so hot…”_

_“I’m gonna take you to bed and make you come all night, any way you want, I want you to boss me around, baby, tell me what you want me to do to you…”_

_“I wanna eat this pussy, sweetheart, wanna go down on you ‘til you’re numb, wanna watch you ride me…”_

In the end, Jon manages all of the above and then some, much to both their satisfactions. And perhaps too a bit of smugness on Jon’s part, because he made Sansa come six times before she insisted, short of breath, that he was sure to render her comatose if he didn’t give her just a _moment_ of peace.

And when Sansa tells him, later — when they’re tangled together in her bed sheets, lights down low and the ceiling fan cooling their sweat-slicked skin — “Oh, fuck, I think I’m in love with you,” Jon doesn’t mind his formerly nerve-wrecked self as much as usual (that is to say, this time he doesn’t mind it at all).

“Fuck, I think I’m in love with you, too,” he chuckles, and yanks her on top of him to go another round.


End file.
